Gabriel
by lucille one
Summary: Erik is slowly withdrawing into his music. Christine is yearning for an independent life. Their son, Gabriel is an incorrigible teenager. A major disaster looms in the near future. Will the family be able to weather it?
1. Chapter 1

Gabriel went up to his room, looking forward to devoting some time to the thing he loved most, carving. He'd just gotten a new piece of wood, and was anxious to see what inspiration it might provide. Ignoring the entire mess that constituted his bedroom, he went straight for his work bench, the only place that was clean and orderly. He grabbed a carving chisel and turned the piece of wood before him, trying to get a sense of it. He had no doubt that inspiration would surely come to him, for it had been a good day. Actually, it really had been more of a victorious day. And to his way of thinking, victory went hand in hand with inspiration.

He rubbed his lip thoughtfully and rose from his work bench, confident that if he viewed the piece from a different perspective, he would be carving within minutes. But nothing came to mind. He sighed, sat down, and stared at the piece, which seemed to dumbly stare back at him. So this was the way it was going to be. Well, so be it. He'd already experienced victory this day, it could happen again. A sudden lightning bolt of anger flashed through him, and he backhanded the piece, sending it flying across the room. It smashed against the wall and with an awful racket, clattered across the floor. Startled, he waited for the inevitable question to come floating up from the parlor.

When all remained quiet, he walked over to the piece of wood. Aghast, he knew that if it had been damaged, it might be rendered useless. On the other hand, he was secretly hoping he'd at least splintered part of it, and gotten some of his own back. But it remained obnoxiously in one piece without a bit of damage. It didn't matter. Knocking the thing across the room felt good, it felt victorious. Now inspiration would certainly come to him. But still it eluded him and from his point of view, he felt as if he were being mocked from afar. Infuriated, he flung the chisel as hard as he could. It rocketed into the wall, spattering the floor with plaster shards. In its wake, an unsightly eye glared at him balefully.

"Gabriel, what's going on up there?"

He rolled his eyes. Now he'd done it. Here it was, the inevitable question from his mother, floating up from the parlor. Annoyed, he chose to ignore her.

"Gabriel?"

Wisely, he reconsidered, for in a moment she'd be up there, pestering him. Then she would see (and know) all. He had to think fast. Within seconds, a plan sprang to mind. The first thing he needed to do was to respond. Maybe that would placate her.

"Nothing!" He shouted.

His denial came out sounding a little more excited than intended, and he knew from past experience she'd never believe it. But it might buy him some time.

She'd have to think about it first and then make the move to investigate.

The second part of his plan involved removing all evidence to eradicate suspicion. He quickly cleaned up the plaster shards, but where he could put them so they wouldn't be spotted? A gust of wind blew through his open window and gave him the hint he needed. He tossed the shards outside.

Now there was the problem of the unsightly blemish in the wall. Even though his room was a complete mess, he knew she'd hone in on the damage if he didn't camouflage it somehow. She had an instinct for routing out the unusual. He quickly scanned the room and spotted his old toy box in a distant corner.

It would be useful to his purpose!

He pushed aside several piles of dirty laundry to make a path, and then pulled the toy box from its corner. He winced as it scraped across the floor in protest, but there was no time to worry about that now. He quickly slid the toy box against the wall and stood back to view the results. It wasn't half bad, he had to admit. It didn't completely cover the accusing eye, but he was satisfied, for now it was not as conspicuous.

Finally, he had to maintain interest in something that didn't interest him at all. He knew that if he started carving, she might figure out that it was one of his carving implements that hit the wall and would search the room for the anything that was out of order. Instead, he grabbed a book. His mother's suspicious nature would focus on him rather than the condition of his room. He sat at his workbench and pretended to be absorbed in his reading when she came into his room.

"What happened?" She asked. Her suspicion was palpable, but he dared not look up.

"Nothing," he replied, and continued feigning interest in his book. It was then she took him completely by surprise.

"Oh, my word!" She said, her voice rising. "What have you done?"

Panic and guilt quickly flashed alternately across his face and he cursed himself silently for his miscalculation. How could she have found out so soon? He buried his head in the deeper in his book and quickly composed himself before looking up at her.

"What?" He asked, pretending a calmness he didn't feel.

"Look at the condition of this room!" She commanded, and made an exaggerated gesture to encompass it with her arm. "It's a disaster! You should be ashamed of yourself, Gabriel."

Shame was the last thing on his mind and he almost laughed out loud with relief. She hadn't mentioned the hole in the wall! So she hadn't seen it. Well, time to turn her attention back to him.

"I don't think it's so bad," he said. The words were uttered quietly and he was staring into his book, but the tone caught his mother's attention.

"What did you say?" She asked.

"I said," he emphasized loudly, slamming the book shut, "I don't think it's so bad".

Surprise flickered across her face, but it was of no concern to him. He shrugged and turned from her, his icy blue eyes casually scanning the room to drive home his point. But he knew instantly that he'd made a serious blunder. Nonchalant nature aside, his eye had unintentionally fallen on the obstinate piece of wood that still lay on the floor. To make matters worse, his chisel had managed to roll out of the clutter into plain sight on the opposite side of the room.  
None of this was lost under his mother's watchful gaze, and she had that, "is there anything you'd like to tell me?" look on her face.

"It's my room," he answered defiantly. "I should be able to keep it the way I want to."

Mother and son stared at one another in silent standoff.

"Well," she said, breaking eye contact after an endless amount of time, "we'll see what your father has to say about that!" She vanished, slamming the door behind her.

Her actions were meant to be foreboding, but to Gabriel they were anything but. His father rarely bothered with him these days, and any words between them would be immediately forgettable. He would once again be ignored and things would go back to normal. Even better, his mother would no longer be a bothersome annoyance. He smiled to himself and touched his lip thoughtfully.

Yes, it had been a victorious day. He tossed the book on the floor, rose and picked up the piece of wood and his carving chisel. Inspiration had finally come to him at last.


	2. Chapter 2

Christine stormed down the stairs, muttering to herself furiously. This latest encounter with her son left her unnerved and shaking with anger. On top of it all, she found herself desperate, and in a predicament. Something had to be done, but the only solution she could think of was the solution she didn't want to pursue; turn to her husband for help. She was in charge of the household and it was up to her to make sure that things ran smoothly. Any imbalance would reflect poorly upon her.

But there was no way around it. She needed his help and would have to enlist it. She took a deep breath and stopped in front of her husband's study. It would never do to simply barge in on him. That wouldn't have worked anyway, for he always kept the study locked when he was working. It was his way of warning anyone that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. Some warning. Christine never ventured anywhere near the study when the door was shut and Gabriel entirely avoided it, open door or not.

She gently knocked on the door, half-heartedly expecting him to ignore her for she knew his work always came first. Christine would never forget such a thing. He wouldn't let her. She heard nothing, not even an acknowledgement of her knock and was about to turn to leave when the sound of the key turning the lock caught her attention. He opened the door and peered out. When he saw it was Christine, he widened the entrance for her.

"Christine!" He said. He seemed surprised. "Come in. I was just about to send for you."

"Send for me how, Erik? There's only the three of us in this house."

"Now, now, Christine, don't fly into a gander. You know what I mean." He seemed in a good mood, almost jovial, making her instantly suspicious.

"There's something I want to talk to you about," he said pleasantly.

"What a happy coincidence then. There's something I need to talk to you about as well."

"Fine, fine. Sit down," he said, and gestured her to a chair in front of his desk.

The chair was a leather one, large and inviting, and seemed to envelope her with comfort. It was strange to her that it would even be there in the first place. She couldn't remember anyone being allowed in his study so a visitor chair, much less a comfortable one, seemed pointless. It wasn't as though she'd never been in the study before, but it had been so long, she felt like a trespassing stranger. Curiosity soon overcame her uneasiness, and she looked over her surroundings with wonder.

A large rug was spread at her feet, beautiful and ornate. The cabinets were polished wood, and were alphabetically categorized. And she knew that if she opened a drawer, everything within would be organized and easily retrievable. There were loose sheets of paper about, but they were in neat piles, kept in place by carefully placed paperweights. The pictures on the walls were of pastoral scenes of peaceful and immense gardens, full of blooming trees and flowers. It was ironic to her that like the Eden of old, the footstep of Man was forever barred from them. Erik must have had that same thought. Perhaps it was why they appealed to him so.

There was a window in the study, but it was shrouded with curtains. The room was dim, except for a lamp on Erik's desk that spotlighted the desk with its brightness. For all its darkness, the atmosphere was not a forbidding one, but instead comforting. He had managed to successfully transform the room into a sanctuary.

In one corner stood the only thing she recognized, a cabinet that had once belonged to Erik's mother. It was filled with assorted knacks and items he'd picked up during his travels. Christine was familiar with these things, for he'd showed them to her many times. But he never spoke of the cabinet or the woman he got it from and Christine never asked. She knew instinctively that the subject or Erik's mother was taboo.

Christine looked over the room again and wondered how a man with such a chaotic mind would keep his physical world so orderly. Or have a son with such an orderly mind who kept his physical world so chaotic.

Snuggled within the comfortable chair, these thoughts formed and dissipated with amazing speed. Even the earlier events with Gabriel were drifting away, leaving her relaxed and sleepy. It was Erik who broke into her blissful state.

"Christine, I need to leave for Paris immediately." She was immediately awake and alert.

"What?"

"This new opera's in a state. The scenery's not right, they can't find the right musicians and the performers are threatening to walk out."

"I don't understand. You write the music. What does all of this have to do with you?"

"What does it have to do with me? I'm the creative force behind the music. I can give them the guidance they need. They..."

"Erik," she interrupted, impatiently. "We need to talk about Gabriel."

"What's wrong with Gabriel?"

"He's entirely out of hand. I need your help."

He looked at her as if she were a troublesome insect he was about to dismiss with a wave of his hand.

"Christine, managing the household is your responsibility. If you can't handle a ten year old boy, I..."

"You're so wrapped up in your work you don't even know the age of your son! He's not a 10 year old anymore! He's 13."

"Well, then," he said, relaxing, "it's obvious what the problem is. He's becoming a young man, Christine."

"So now I assume you want to set him up into some kind of a profession, is that it?" She asked sarcastically.

"That's not it at all," he said calmly. "What I meant was that there are bound to be bumps along the way."

Christine rose to her feet, clearly irritated. "Perhaps you should take a look at some of those 'bumps'. He cannot control his anger, Erik. He threw his carving chisel into the wall and now there's a hole the size of your hand there. He lied to cover up the damage. His grades are plummeting. These are not 'bumps', they're chasms that are threatening to destroy this house and our family."

"And so I must stop my work must for him," he said angrily and rose from his chair. "Is that what you're saying?"

"I don't recall asking you to give up your writing forever. But it's clear something needs to be done now and you are the one who must do it!"

She walked over and gently touched his arm.

Look," she said, softening. "All I'm asking is that you talk to him and find out what's troubling him."

She felt him stiffen with resistance. But, when he looked down at her, she knew before he said anything that he had relented.

"All right, Christine. You win. I'll talk to him at dinner tonight."


	3. Chapter 3

When Christine married Raoul, she was apprehensive about taking on a life where she could no longer let someone else guide her. It would be her responsibility to manage his household and his servants, and she wondered just how she would fit into his world. It was then that she made a surprising discovery: he simply wanted to fit into hers.

He bought her a small house and gave her the responsibility of managing it. She hadn't realized it at the time, but he'd given her a far greater gift; a new world that she could fashion according to her own choosing.

She wasted no time in becoming not only an efficient manager, but discovered other talents within herself that she never knew existed. Among those talents was an extraordinary gift for cooking, which Raoul invited her to nurture and cultivate. She broadened her horizons by planting and tending a small garden, and often combined the fruits of her labor with items she picked up from the market. Adding to her happiness, Raoul allowed himself to become the object of her culinary experiments. He was not particular and with few exceptions, would eat just about anything set in front of him. He also allowed her to cook for friends on occasion, just so she could show off her culinary talents.

Erik, on the other hand, was different altogether, not at all receptive and slightly gregarious. He would sample everything in front of him with grace and tact, but if they didn't meet with his approval, he would leave the table. Or, not show up at all.

She had once called him finicky, and to her surprise he responded by saying he was not finicky, but instead discriminating. The few friends he had resided in Paris, far from her current home in Stockholm. Invitations to dinner were only offered when they were in town. But fortunately for Christine, Gabriel had been an object of experiment since he could chew, and was not surprised or intimidated by any culinary concoctions his mother chose to make.

He was especially fond of chocolate confections. When he was little, he often helped make those candy creations, and loved the little molds of ponies, soldiers, trees and flowers. They were magical tools that created wondrous results. Sadly, with the passage of time, those days had passed. Christine could only look upon them with a resigned regret and take refuge in the happiness she still found in the culinary arts.

But not this day. She worked furiously, like a woman possessed. There was a storm brewing that threatened to tear her family apart. Husband and son were on opposite sides of the horizon and she found herself in the middle, helpless and alone.

Erik had been absent more than he'd been present at dinner as of late and was taking more and more trips to, as he called it, "to straighten things out".

Gabriel, while present at dinner, was absent in mind and spirit, except for the occasional visit back to reality to antagonize her. It was inevitable that one day he'd leave and never return. It was strange that the two of them could be so blind to the hell bent destruction that intended to take them from her. And there was nothing she could do about it.

She was setting the table as Gabriel sauntered down.

"Have you finished your studies?" She asked as she was arranging the silverware.

"No."

She stepped back and surveyed the results. Satisfied with the settings, she turned her attention to her son.

"You realize you also have chores to complete tonight," she said, looking at him pointedly. He was playing with a chain he'd fished from his pocket, swinging it back and forth. This action seemed to snap a nerve within her.

"Gabriel!"

"Yes, yes, I know!" He was exasperated and slipped into his seat. "You don't have to remind me of everything."

For once, she agreed. "You know, you're right. I never once have to remind you to be on time for dinner. Are your hands clean?"

He didn't answer and when she turned her back to him, he rolled his eyes and continued twisting the chain. She set out dinner and they waited for Erik to arrive, wondering if he would grace them with his presence. He appeared a few moments later, and she breathed a sigh of relief as he sat down and looked over everything. He appeared happy and content. Perhaps things were not so bleak after all.

"Christine, this smells delicious," he said, taking his bowl and doling a spoonful of the contents.

"Thank you, Erik." It was not the heartfelt response it should have been and to add to it, there was the weight of her skeptical stare. He looked up at her.

"What is it?" He asked.

"Nothing," she said shaking her head as if to clear it from the invisible cobwebs of suspicion. "I'm just surprised, that's all."

"I don't know why you'd be surprised. Isn't it a common practice to compliment food that smells delicious?"

"I..."

She never finished and was watching him pick at the food with his fork. A sliver of annoyance broke into her thoughts.

"Christine, what is this?" He asked, looking up at her.

"It's a kind of stew and you just said it smells delicious," she replied.

"I know what I said. What's in it?"

"Does it matter?"

"I don't know. I'd like to find out before I answer that."

"Well, then you'll need to answer a question of mine first. In your opera, Night Phoenix, is Emile's cloak satin or silk?"

"What?"

"You heard the question. Is it satin or silk?"

"I don't understand."

"I'd wager it's more than likely you simply don't know, so let me explain. Only the very best people wear satin. If Emile isn't wearing satin, then why should anyone pay to see Night Phoenix? So is the cloak satin or silk?"

"That doesn't make sense."

"Of course it doesn't and do you know why? Because it doesn't matter one bit. The end result was a character named Emile who was an integral part of the opera. No one cares what material he was wearing. Just like dinner. Why would you care what's in it? The end result is either the dinner is delicious or it's not. If it is, you eat all of it. If not, you refuse to eat it. If Night Phoenix doesn't meet with your approval, you can walk out on it. If it's a great opera, you'll stay to the end. Simple as that.

"Besides," she said, "you've had this before and liked it. I would appreciate it if you ceased with the nonsense and ate it!"

Erik watched as she helped herself to the stew, sat down, and began to eat it with gusto. She had a point and her logic was brilliant, not easily arguable. He shrugged mentally, put his apprehension aside and began to eat as well. It was delicious and he wondered why he'd made such a fuss.

But there was something else. While their argument had ended, there was still a tension in the room that couldn't be ignored. He looked over at Christine, who was still eating with enthusiasm. Too much enthusiasm, it seemed. Then he focused on Gabriel.

His son wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary, just helping himself to the stew. His actions seemed so natural that at first, Erik didn't give them any mind. He was relieved and perhaps thought he was taking things too seriously. It didn't appear any of the tension was directed at him or anyone else, and so he finished his dinner.

He was just about to excuse himself when he turned his attention back to Gabriel. And as he watched, he frowned. Gabriel still had not eaten, but instead was doling out small spoonfuls of the food and letting them plop sloppily into his bowl. Not all reached their target destination, but splashed onto the table in a puddled mess, which Erik suspected, was done intentionally.

Christine was still eating heartily, completely oblivious to her son's performance. Erik frowned, watching his son's attempts at goading his mother into action.

"Gabriel!"

His intent was to startle his son, but Christine nearly jumped out her chair instead. Gabriel merely turned to him, and when Erik saw his face, the earlier warnings he'd chosen to make light of returned to haunt him with vengeance.

"Son, what happened to you?"


	4. Chapter 4

How could the obvious have escaped him? His son had been sitting to his left the whole time, yet he completely missed Gabriel's injuries. The left side of his son's face had turned an ugly pinkish-purple color. His eyelid had darkened to black, was swollen and the eye itself was blood red, startling with its icy intensity. His lip had been split and the knuckles of his right hand were skinned. Yet in spite of was have been considerable pain, he carried himself with a stoic calmness that gave him a certain kind of dignity. He turned from his father, and stared off, still as a statue.

Erik repeated the question again, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

"Son, what happened to you?"

"Nothing happened."

Erik's eyes locked with Christine's, but rather than providing him with an answer, they seemed to say, 'I told you so'. She was not going to be of much help. He cleared his throat and began again.

"Your mother feels I should talk to you, and find out what's troubling you."

It was an opening he thought Gabriel might take, but the boy said nothing, didn't even turn his attention to his father. Instead went back to his monotonous and increasingly irritating ritual of dipping and dropping dinner onto the table. When Erik caught Christine's gaze this time, it was different, one that offered assistance and at the same time told him to do what he thought best.

With a lightning quickness that caught his son unexpected, Erik stopped Gabriel's arm in mid-air before another spoonful could plop into his bowl. Surprised by his father's interruption, it was Gabriel's turn to lock eyes with his father.

Erik had been told his own eyes were among the most unusual ever seen. Christine thought them especially beautiful, particularly when he was pensive and they caught the light at just the right angle. But looking into his son's eyes at that moment, he knew Gabriel held the most unusual he'd ever seen. To say they were simply blue and vivid was not enough. To say they were windows into the boy's soul were not enough. He saw many emotions that swirled effortlessly into an icy fury, all directed at him. Erik recognized instantly that his son was trying to disconcert him while at the same time challenging him. So be it.

"Christine," Erik said calmly, eyes never wavering from Gabriel's face or grip loosening from his arm, "go and bring one of your mirrors to me. We need to have Gabriel take a look at his face. See if he notices any changes from yesterday."

She rose slowly from her seat, looking from one to the other. She was pleased that Erik had taken charge, but faltered at the thought of this sudden conflict that had erupted between father and son. .

"Christine?" He was looking at her now, voice light and musical, almost a whisper.

"Yes, Erik, I'll get it for you right now."

Erik watched her leave, a gentle, almost humorous expression on his face. But when he turned his gaze back Gabriel, his face held nothing of the affection for his wife. He was issuing his own challenge.

His golden eyes had hardened and were now flat and unreadable, obliterating the myriad of emotions he felt. He tightened his grip on Gabriel, and forced his son to confront the folly in not only revealing so much about himself, but underestimating the familiarity his father presented. For the first time, Gabriel was given a glimpse of his father's dark side. He whimpered, not in pain, but in the awareness this new knowledge presented. Shocked, he dropped the spoon onto the table. He found he could no longer look at his father, and was shaking within his grasp.

"Were you planning on emptying out the entire bowl onto the table?"

Startled, Gabriel looked up into his father's face. There was no trace of the steeliness that had been there earlier, only the affection that was always present for him. But Gabriel looked closer and knew it was different now. His father's gaze was tinged with sadness as he released his grip on his son.

"I don't know," Gabriel replied, shrugging.

"Seems to me you don't know a lot of things," Erik said. "You don't know what happened to you, you seem to have forgotten how to eat, you don't even know if you want to continue making a mess."

"I never said I didn't know what happened."

"No, you chose to lie about it instead," Erik said, leaning back in his chair. "So, tell. What happened?"

"I got into a fight."

"That doesn't surprise me. Was it one that you provoked?"

Gabriel's icy gaze focused sharply on his father, and Erik almost smiled.

"Just as I thought."

"Why would you…..?" The question died on Gabriel's lips. He already knew. His emotions had betrayed him. He realized the dangerous flaw he not only harbored, but carefully nurtured.

"You know, Gabriel, you are often as transparent as glass," Erik said, casually studying him. "I knew from looking at you, you had provoked that fight. For one thing, your reaction was very unusual to me, in fact it's a reaction I would call odd. You didn't act fearful or upset, and despite the mauling you received, you didn't act like you were in any great deal of pain.

Do you know what I think? That all of this was some sort of test in which you felt you had to prove yourself. From the looks of things, it appears to me you see yourself as victorious."

Erik hoped his words would anger Gabriel, but noticed instead that his son was warming to his words. He frowned, for it was not the reaction he had hoped for.

"You will refuse to believe this, but this is a misplaced victory, one that your pride and arrogance are strengthening. You're succumbing to a slow and deadly poison, one that you will not be able to resist if you continue on your current course. I…."

It was at that moment Christine returned with the mirror.

"We won't need that now, Christine," Erik said. "Gabriel is quite aware of what happened to him."

Gabriel looked at his father, who was looking at Christine, who was looking from one to another. Something had happened here, something of vast importance, but she knew it had dissipated the moment she set foot into the room. She frowned, puzzled, but said nothing. She set the mirror on the table and sat down.

"There are a couple of things before we adjourn to my study, Gabriel. First, you will apologize to your mother."

Gabriel radiated with defiance, and for a moment Erik thought he would adamantly refuse. But then suddenly, he relented and the act troubled Erik.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Try looking at your mother," Erik urged. "Say the words to her so she can hear you."

Again, there was a dart of resistance, but as suddenly as it erupted, it was gone.

"I'm sorry," Gabriel said, looking in Christine's direction. It was not heartfelt, and she wasn't sure he was even looking at her, but for some reason, she felt uncomfortable and did not want to make a scene of it.

"Now, pick up the spoon and clean up the mess you made. See if you can put it into your bowl this time."

For the first time Gabriel looked down at the puddle of food before him, and seemed amazed at how much of a mess he had made within such a short period of time. The pride in this ambiguous achievement evaporated quickly once he picked up the discarded spoon and began shoveling small amounts back into the bowl. After a short time it became obvious this was taking too long, and in his impatience, he began using his other hand as a make shift trowel. He quickly cleared up the puddle, and placed the spoon back into his bowl.

"That wasn't so hard now, was it?" Erik asked. Gabriel flashed him a look bordering on hatred, but Erik ignored him. He continued, addressing Christine.

"Gabriel wants you to know how sorry he is for the _huge_ stain on your tablecloth. If the stain cannot be removed, he'll be purchasing another for you."

"What…?" Both Christine and Erik turned to their son, who resembled a fish out of water now, mouth agog, as if struggling for air. Had it not been a tension filled evening, Christine would have laughed at her son's predicament. As it was, she could only stare at him.

"You can ask questions when you're in my study and not before," Erik replied. "Now go and wash your hands and meet me there directly. Christine, would you please make some coffee and bring it in to me?"

She remained staring at Gabriel.

"Christine?"

"Of course," she said, snapping out of her trance. She turned to him, eyes were full of questions. His contained only one answer:

"Leave this to me."

And with that, he left the table and retreated to his study. His study. Sanctuary. Surely this entire episode could have been resolved right then and there

She prepared the coffee, and while it was brewing, cleaned off the table, and did the dishes. She worked so fast and furiously, she was done well before the coffee had completed its course. She put the dinner dishes away and made sure kitchen and dining room were in complete order.

With a practiced eye, she studied the stain on the tablecloth. Huge was not an understatement. It was gigantic and she knew the tablecloth was ruined. Still she made a valiant attempt, for it was a beautiful tablecloth, one she had tenaciously tried to guard against stains. She vigorously scrubbed at the eyesore, but it would not fade. Sighing, she washed the rest of the table cloth and hung it out to dry. It would end up in her mending basket and she would look at it later. Perhaps pieces of it could be salvaged.

Returning to the kitchen, she retrieved a tray, the coffee carafe, and a cup. She placed the cup on the tray, and while the filling the carafe, she thought about what she could put on the tray with the coffee. Gabriel had no taste for coffee, so she couldn't put a cup on it for him. And this thought suddenly filled her with a combination of emotions.

He really ought to be sent to bed without any food or drink, she told herself. That was the proper punishment for what he'd done. And not only that, it was the right thing to do, the parental thing to do. He needed to be taught a lesson.

Yet the sight of his face also filled her with a motherly compassion. Like Erik, she knew his injuries had to be painful, and those injuries hurt just as if she'd received them instead of her son. And so she gave in. With a sense of self-loathing, she filled a glass with lemonade for him. She placed a small plate on the tray and loaded it with sweet biscuits for the both of them.

The door to the study was closed, and she could hear low muttering on the other side. For some reason, both disconcerted her to an irrational anger. She was just as much a part of the family, so why was the door closed to her? And then to make matters worse, she found herself knocking on the door instead of entering as an equal.

"Come in, Christine."

She brought the tray in, and quickly observed the scene before setting it down. Both father and son seemed calm, and welcomed her intrusion.

"Ah, Christine," Erik said as he eyed the tray. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She lingered for a moment, hoping to be invited to the discussion, but was instead greeted with mild curiosity.

"Is there anything else, Christine?" Erik asked, breaking the silence.

"Uh, do you want me to pour the coffee for you?"

"No, that won't be necessary. We can manage."

And still she loitered.

"Christine," Erik repeated. "Is there anything else?"

"Well...no," she replied, embarrassed. What an awkward situation.

"All right then. Would you please close the door on your way out?"

"Of course."

She left the study, her mind in turmoil. Why wasn't she invited to stay? Of course, she did not consider that she hadn't planned on participating in the discussion in the first place. She herself had only placed one cup on the tray instead of two. Still, he could have asked.

Christine knew she should have been happy, relieved, or one of a thousand other victorious emotions. This is what she wanted. This is what Erik said he would do. But when she closed that study door, her anger had been replaced by a painful uselessness.


End file.
